Jack's Back

by Mark Romain

  In an explosion of unfettered panic, she lunged out with her left hand, clawing the side of his face as hard as she could. The world was closing in on her, making it difficult to breathe, and all she knew was that she had to make him release her; she had to break free and get out of the car. Her long nails were sharp enough to draw blood easily and, with all of her remaining strength, she raked them downwards, gouging the side of his face. She could actually feel the shards of soft flesh getting trapped under her nails as she shredded his skin.

  With a surprised howl of pain, Winston released her arm. To her absolute horror, she could see, even in the dark, four fresh tramlines running down the side of his face. A trickle of blood was already seeping out of one.

  Winston raised his hand to his face in disbelief. He winced at the contact with his lacerated skin. When he examined his fingers, they had fresh blood on them. His blood!

  The side of his face was burning like he’d just been branded.

  “I’ll kill you for this.” The words, spoken in quiet fury, chilled her to the bone. She jumped out of the car and ran blindly across the road. A passing motorist sounded his horn angrily as he swerved to avoid both her and the open door of the car.

  Winston was already half out of the car, intent on following her across the road and thrashing her, there and then, as a lesson for all to see. No one fucks with The Man and walks away to tell the tale. But he was as cunning as he was brutal. There were people about, and he could do without the complication of witnesses. Besides, it might ruin trade for the night, and that would never do.

  No, it would be smarter to make the bitch suffer later when no one else was around. Before the night was through, he would teach her a lesson she would never forget. He would make an example out of her for all the other bitches to bear in mind: don’t fuck with The Man.

  Fighting to keep his emotions from spilling over, Winston slammed the passenger door with enough force to make the BMW rock. He eased his great bulk back into the car and performed a lazy U-turn, pulling into Quaker Street, where the two hookers had converged on Tracey.

  The BMW stopped by the kerb and the electric window slowly wound down. The sound system blasted its loud music into the quiet night air, reverberating off the building walls opposite.

  Boom, boom, boom.

  Seeing the look on Claude’s face, the two working girls immediately distanced themselves from Tracey.

  Winston leaned across the passenger seat, his eyes locking with hers. The intensity of his gaze was unbearable. His black orbs seemed to burn deep into her head as if he were peering into her very soul. She recoiled from the aura of malice, instinctively edging backwards until she could go no further, coming to a halt with her back pressed into the wire mesh fence of the used car sales lot.

  “I’m sorry, Claude, please don’t hurt me,” she begged, almost wetting herself with fear.

  Still staring malevolently into her eyes, Claude reached up and placed his right forefinger just below the left side of his chin. Slowly, and with great feeling, he drew it from side to side across his neck. With the same finger, he then pointed directly at Tracey. The message was clear, even in her state of withdrawal, and she reacted as if she had been slapped.

  As the BMW drove off her knees buckled with relief and a small whimper escaped her quivering lips.

  What had she done?

  How could she have been so stupid?

  What would he do to her now?

  Shit, shit, shit!

  As she stood there, contemplating the pain that Claude would undoubtedly inflict on her, desperately needing a fix and knowing that things could only get worse, Tracey Phillips reached the lowest ebb of her entire life.

  She found herself wishing that she was dead and that her life of pain and suffering would finally be over. Sadly, before the night was through, her wish was going to come true.

  CHAPTER 3

  The Disciple sat motionless in the cab of his battered Sherpa van, which was parked between two cars midway along Quaker Street, and wondered how the situation outside the car lot would develop.

  The girl had taken a big chance, playing chicken with the traffic like that, but the gamble seemed to have paid off because she now had a thirty-second head start on her pursuer. Incredibly, having just risked her life to get away from him, she immediately surrendered the advantage by stopping on the other side of the road.

  What the hell was she doing? It was a no-brainer that he would come after her.

  And he did. But instead of unfolding into the high-octane drama the build-up had promised, the situation simply fizzled out; for instead of leaping out of his car and laying into her, as any self-respecting thug in his position would surely do, the big lump merely sat in his BMW, made an ‘I’m gonna slit your throat’ gesture towards her, and then drove off.

  The whole thing was a total anti-climax.

  As the BMW tore past his van, The Disciple caught a glimpse of the marks on the driver’s angry face. That must have hurt, he thought, taking perverse pleasure from the fact. Good. He didn’t like pimps, for what else could the man be, any more than the odious product they marketed.

  As the dust settled, he began taking stock of the three whores loitering outside the used car lot. The black girl had a long scar down her left cheek; an eyesore that marred an otherwise pretty face. The white middle-aged whore had a stern pig-like face, a bloated figure, and peroxide hair. He shuddered; she was more Marilyn Manson than Marilyn Monroe.

  Neither took his fancy.

  On the other hand, the scrawny white girl who had just joined them showed real promise. Even tear-streaked with mascara, her face was pleasant and inviting. Her hair looked natural, too, which was more than he could say about her plump companion. The third girl’s body looked reasonably firm from a distance; although he knew that close up, she was bound to be a little frayed around the edges. At least she was endowed with good size tits, a quality he liked in his women. She had nice legs too, and he suspected that she had been a real stunner once.

  In his previous, weaker, life he would have wanted her badly. But, like all the rest, she would have mocked his feeble efforts, making him feel even more useless and inadequate then he already did.

  Thankfully, The Craft had taught him how to control and re-channel such urges, enabling him to focus all his energies on completing the ritual without succumbing to the distractions of the flesh.

  As he watched, a blue Cavalier pulled off the main drag, slung a lazy U in the mouth of Quaker Street, and stopped by the car lot. Scar Face and Miss Piggy were at the driver’s door in an instant, each trying to out writhe and out gyrate the other. The Disciple found their brazenness positively obscene. It was interesting to see that Nice Tits, the girl he had taken a fancy to, was hanging back.

  At the conclusion of a short, businesslike, conversation Scar Face waved to the others and slipped into the passenger seat. Miss Piggy, having lost out, could only stand there looking dejected as she waved goodbye to the receding car.

  Excellent, The Disciple thought, one down and two to go!

  It struck him that Nice Tits was becoming increasingly jittery, and he wondered what was bothering her. Did she sense what was coming her way? He smiled. Now there was a thought.

  Miss Piggy and Nice tits were so engrossed in their conversation that they failed to notice the police car that glided into view, headlights dimmed to make it less conspicuous.

  He watched anxiously as the patrol car crawled to an inevitable halt beside the two blissfully ignorant whores. He held his breath, feeling powerless to prevent the inevitable vice bust. Go away! He willed them, knowing it was never going to happen. Just drive off and leave them to me.

  The driver unwound his window, and from the way he started giving it some with his finger it was obvious that he was reading the riot act to them. The Disciple rolled his eyes. How Pathetic! The cop was wasting his breath. Well intentioned words were wasted on feral creatures like these.

  The fema
le operator got out of the patrol car and started taking down their details in a little notebook. In stark contrast to her earlier behaviour, Miss Piggy was now trying to look like butter wouldn’t melt in her loathsome mouth.

  When she was done, the operator handed over the notebook to her driver, who began speaking into his radio. The Disciple reasoned he must be doing name checks, to see if either girl was circulated as wanted. Just as the reply started coming through, the transmission was cut across by someone who sounded like they were running flat out. The Disciple quickly gathered that an officer on foot was chasing someone in Roman Road.

  The driver, who up until now had looked rather bored, suddenly became very animated; he tossed the notebook aside and started signalling for his operator to forget the whores and get in quickly. As soon as the bemused looking passenger closed her door the car tore off, blue lights and siren erupting into action simultaneously.

  Realising he was still holding his breath, The Disciple released it in a long whoosh and uttered a silent thank you to the gods above. He wondered if, perhaps, it would be better directed to the demons below.

  As the patrol car pulled out of the side road, doing a wheel spin that would have left most boy racers green with envy, Nice Tits gave it the two-fingered salute. Miss Piggy walked over and gave her a big hug, then whispered something in her ear. Whatever she said seemed to cheer Nice Tits up considerably. There was another brief conversation, in which Miss Piggy nodded several times, and then she blew Nice Tits a kiss and waddled off towards the main road.

  “Please be as quick as you can,” Nice Tits shouted after her friend, and there was real desperation in her voice.

  “I will,” Miss Piggy promised, and waddled even faster. Within seconds she had vanished from sight.

  Two down and one to go.

  Things were moving fast, perhaps too fast. His heart pounded as he scanned the street, but other than little miss Nice Tits it was completely deserted.

  He doubted that there would ever be a better opportunity, and it struck him that if he were going to act, he ought to do so now before the moment passed. He took a deep breath, thinking: by Lucifer, I’m really going to do this!

  The Disciple’s hands were shaking as he started the ignition and turned on the lights.

  It was show time.

  As the van jolted away from the kerb, adrenaline surged through his veins like liquid electricity. God this was the most exciting thing he had ever done. What a ride, what a thrill, he felt like singing. All I wanna do is kill, kill, kill!

  The words echoed in his head. He had a score to settle and now it was payback time.

  He felt no guilt about what he intended to do.

  Why should he?

  Harlots just like the one he intended to gut had laughed at him, cheated him out of money and finally infected him. The memory of being treated for venereal disease at that dreadful clinic still made him cringe. He had waited; hoping it would go away, suffering in silence. In the end, the pain had been too much. The shame had been worse.

  Much worse.

  He shuddered at the recollection of what whores like her and her filthy parasitic friends had put him through. How he hated them, all of them. Fucking bitches!

  They had affected his health, ruined his marriage and made his life a total misery.

  After years of suffering, he was finally going to put things right and move on.

  What a ride, what a thrill. All I’m gonna do is kill, kill, killllllll!

  The words had such a nice ring to them.

  ◆◆◆

  Tracey Phillips was swaying like a punch-drunk boxer as she stood on the corner staring at passing cars and waiting for a punter to show some interest.

  The arrival of Old Bill had sent the kerb crawlers scuttling back under their rocks, but they were nothing if not predictable, and she knew that if she gave it ten-minutes, they would all come flocking back.

  A part of her was grateful for the enforced reprieve; she desperately needed to score some gear before letting anyone score with her.

  Fat Sandra had nipped off for a quick piss; she had a bit of a bladder problem, and would be backward and forward all bloody night like a urine fueled yo-yo. The good news was that Tracey had got the gullible old cow feeling so sorry for her that she had agreed to pick up a couple of rocks on the way back. The old piss pot had even swallowed the line about Tracey paying her back as soon as she turned a trick, like that was going to happen.

  The sound of an engine coughing into life startled her, and she turned around to see a battered van lurch away from the kerb further along the road.

  It crawled along the road towards her.

  Fuck, she thought. A punter. She wasn’t up to this, not by a long stretch, but she desperately needed the money, so she smoothed her mini skirt down and tried to look as interested and seductive as she could.

  The driver suddenly flicked the headlights onto main beam, and she raised a hand to shield her eyes. “You cock,” she cursed under her breath, “like I don’t feel bad enough without you trying to blind me.”

  Tracey took up a half-hearted pose by the driver’s door as soon as it slid back. Through eyes that wouldn’t focus properly, she tried to give him the once over, taking in the fact that her prospective client was a middle-aged white man with waxen skin, dark, wavy hair and a moustache. He was a little overweight, and his small hands were encased in leather driving gloves.

  It struck her that he had nervous, shifty eyes, but most of her punters had those. “Hello, handsome. Looking for some action?” she asked, trying not to slur her words.

  The Disciple smiled. At least his mouth did. The eyes remained cold and remote. He had recognised her clucking for what it was and knew it would make her easier to handle.

  The important thing was speed. If he could spirit her away before anyone appeared, he was home and dry. “Maybe,” he said, guardedly. “What’s on offer?”

  “I can do most anything you want. Cost you though.”

  Was it his imagination or was she starting to sway a little as she stood there?

  A dog barked in the distance, and he glanced nervously in that direction.

  Still all clear.

  “How much you want to go all the way?” he asked, licking his lips nervously.

  “That’ll cost you thirty. It’s not negotiable, and you’ve gotta wear a rubber.”

  It always amazed him just how matter of fact these people could be about such an embarrassing subject. They quickly agreed on the price and he beckoned to her to get into the passenger door of the van. Her bum had barely touched the seat before The Disciple drove off.

  “I know a quiet place just a couple of streets from here,” she said, pulling her seatbelt on. “The Old Bill never checks round there, so we won’t be bothered.”

  “Sounds perfect,” he said. “Show me the way.”

  Three minutes later, she directed the van into a loading bay at the rear of a nearby warehouse. There were no streetlights, no CCTV, and it was completely off the beaten track, just as she had claimed.

  She leaned tantalisingly close to him and whispered, “Do you want me in the van, or are we going outside for a knee trembler?”

  Her cheap perfume filled the front of the van, intoxicating him. His hands trembled and he was aware that he was hard. He wanted this, needed it. He felt a shiver of excitement run through his body. “Tell me,” he croaked, “what star sign are you?”

  “Who cares,” Tracey replied; she just wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible so that she could get back and buy some more drugs.

  “I do,” he said. “It’s important to me.” That was an understatement! He couldn’t kill her until he knew for certain.

  Tracey shrugged. What a weirdo. “I’m a Virgo,” she told him. “So, are we doing this or what?”

  “Oh yes,” he told her. “We’re going to do it right now.” The Disciple climbed through the dividing curtains into the rear of the van and motioned for T
racey to follow. She shook her head and stayed put.

  “Money first,” she demanded, holding out her hand. She could see he was annoyed, but Tracey wasn’t going to do anything until she was paid. She had been on the game too long to make that mistake. Cash up front; those were the terms. She told him so.

  For a moment the impulse to grab her skinny little throat and throttle her where she sat was overwhelming, but, somehow, he managed to resist the voice in his head spurring him on to squeeze the life out of her. He decided to permit her the illusion of control. His breathing grew laboured as he removed the money from his wallet and passed it over with a quivering hand.

  After carefully checking the money she slipped it into her purse with a shaking hand. She found it hard work, climbing into the back of the van. Dizzy and out of breath from her efforts, she noticed that the whole of the inside was covered in sheet plastic. “Kinky,” she said, thinking: You slimy fucking sicko. I bet your wife would be seriously freaked out if she knew about this little set up of yours.